


Princedom for a cannon fodder

by ReZeta



Category: The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:27:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27137971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReZeta/pseuds/ReZeta
Summary: Murthag got his dragon (not) a little bit earlier than in canon. Raised by Galbatorix, he is on a warpath and ready to get his ass kicked.
Relationships: Arya Dröttningu/Murtagh Morzansson
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

Throne room was not a nice place. It was not calm, it was not comfortable, and it was most definitely not safe.

There was nothing good about it. It was always cold - the awful, freezing-from-the-inside kind of cold that creeps you out and comes at night to haunt you. It was full of sharp, loud noises. It was almost empty, with nothing but a huge chair in the middle of the room.

In fifteen years he knew it, he had yet to see the walls. Shruikan's gigantic body shielded from his eyes.

A throne, a man, and a dragon so huge that he had no place in a room more akin to a cage.

Murtagh hated it. Hated it since before he knew what hate was. What it meant.

"Rise."

His king did not shout, even though it felt like he did. He did not raise his voice, ever. Only fools did. Murtagh stood up silently, keeping his eyes to the floor. It wasn't necessary, Galbatorix could read his mind either way.

But it gave him some comfort, and that was enough.

"Look at me."

Comfort that was, of course, immediately taken away. Galbatorix granted him a look - a single moment of connection. A piercing shot of... not necessarily pain, it wasn't painful per se. Of a forceful intervention. His mind was torn open and casually searched.

Sometimes Murtagh wished he was a regular mortal. Someone so dull that he wouldn't notice such intervention for the death of his.

"Your fool of a father had failed me. You will correct his mistake."

Or else.

Murtagh did not need clarification on how exactly his dearest father managed to piss off the king. He simply lost the biggest damned treasure in the world to the king's worst enemies. One of the last three dragon eggs left on the continent, probably in the whole world.

It was the symbol of the deepest trust between the king and his right hand. It became a stain that smeared the name of Morzan, the first and the last among the Forsworn. A single mistake that cost him all of the king's favor and got him killed.

Had it been any other egg, he would have been forgiven. Not easily, but Morzan was the oldest supporter of the king since the time before the Great War. But it wasn't. It was the egg on the last female dragon. The one and only chance to revive the ancient race. His Majesty was never known for tolerance to failure, and such fault he simply could not forgive.

Out of favor, thrown out of his own castle, Morzan went looking for death. And found it, no one knew where.

Murtagh could almost feel pity for the old cunt. Almost.

"Where do I start?"

The egg was gone for fifteen years. Murtagh doubted the king would summon him without a hint to throw at him.

"From the Gil'ead." King simply answered. "The egg is carried back and forth between Du Weldenvarden and temporary safehouses of the rebels. Durza found the courier route. You will be dispatched in the Gil'ead, track down the carrier, kill him, and return the egg."

Hah.

'So, the rebels are trying to grow their own rider.'

A bit foolish, but it made sense. Galbatorix was not eternal, despite all of his power, and having a dragon on their side was a nice trump card to have. Gil'ead also made sense as a starting point. It lied right in between the great desert and mountains. Whoever the carrier was, save for a dragon rider, he would need to bypass the city if he wanted to get to the elven kingdom.

Murtagh bowed.

"Why me?" He dared to ask. "If lord Durza found it, it is his trophy. I do not seek stolen glory. Or unnecessary enemies."

There was a pause. Dark eyes of the king studied him. Finally, he answered:

"Because you are Morzan's son."

There was a strain in his voice. A hint, a barely visible trail of regret. Murtagh bowed again.

"Durza will be rewarded properly for his service," Galbatorix muttered. "Take Thorn and as many men you require to take on a group of elves."

Murtagh felt his eyes open wide.

'Elves, hah?'

He did not expect that. Rebels were a known quantity - a mix of dwarfs and humans, only a tiny portion of them actually capable to fight on a level of a royal knight. Elves... elves were a very different story. Mostly because he never faced them. Only read about them. And he did not like what he found in the books.

He had no idea what to expect. At all.

"I will, your majesty."

Galbatorix quietly sighed. Murtagh failed to identify the emotion on the king's face.

"Sometimes I forget how young you are. You had never seen an elf in your entire life, haven't you?" Galbatorix shook his head. "Do not take less than twenty, but no more than fifty men. Do not put the wards around you, they will feel it. Do not use magic at all if you can help it."

Murtagh silently nodded. He wasn't dumb enough to question the advice of a person with more than a century of combat experience against the very enemy he was sent to face.

"I will not."

Galbatorix looked at him, piercing his mind.

"Yes. You will not."

It was more of a statement than a question.

"Am I..."

"Yes. You are allowed to act on your own initiative." Old King sighed. "And you shall bear all of the responsibility for the result of such."

'Hah.'

That... did not reassure him. Not in the slightest.

"I will see it done."

Galbatorix did not answer. There simply was no need. Murtagh bowed at the last time, turned around, and left the throne room, trying desperately not to run. It was the first time in years he was allowed to leave the capital. On his own, no less.

He felt like it was the name day he never celebrated.

\---

So, yeh. Best boy Murthag got his dragon a bit earlier and is sent to fetch Arya for his owner like a good boy he is. Because Durza sucks as an antagonist. And because all of his actions in the canon were dumb as fuck.


	2. Chapter 2

"Your elder should have sent the warlock with us."

Ouch. That hurt.

"Why?" He asked, trying to hide it. "We can do it."

Thorn sighed.

"He wants us to find a single hare in the forest. You do not find a single hare in the forest." The dragon was angry, his voice was more similar to a roar. "It is about the female. It is more important than your pride."

To be fair, his dragon wasn't exactly wrong. It was important. Very much so. Especially for him.

"What do you offer? Go asking for Durza's help?"

"No. Pointless." The dragon shook his head. Or, at least, Murtagh had a feeling he did. Telepathy was a strange thing at times. "Take the army with us."

"They will slow us down. I want to fly straight to the Gil'ead and take troops from there."

There was a short pause.

"They will be weaker. Slower."

"They are locals. If we will bring a crown army in the border town..."

"True." Thorn roared quietly. "Will you present me as a big red bird for secrecy? I am sure no one will notice."

Murtagh chuckled.

"Point."

The problem was complicated, to put it rather lightly. He had to bring a dragon and a small army of crown knights (meaning at least ten serves with each) to the city right on the border of the elven kingdom. With which they were, unofficially, in a state of perpetual war.

All while staying preferably as hidden as possible.

He also had to track down a small group of elves, that was carrying the single most precious item in the known world. The item that could be easily fit in a backpack. He doubted there will be anyone younger than five hundred in the group. All sorcerers, most likely. Each of them doing this carrying through border routine for years, if not decades. Secretive, small numbered, experienced, armed with magical skills, and elven patience. Filled with hatred towards the enemy, aka him on that specific occasion.

He could either bring a lot of troops, be very loud, blockade the entire border with simple humans and find nothing, or be secretive as possible, take the team of local scouts, and hope to find a needle in the haystack of the size of kingdom border. And find nothing. Or to mobilize the entire border, posting wanted papers on every wall and offering a huge amount for any kind information... and still find nothing.

Cheerful. Not wonder Durza wasn't all that loud to volunteer for the job.

To bring a lot of troops, to stay secretive, or organize an all-out search. Pick either two or only one... no. It was the wrong way to think about it. It was a problem of scales, not a pick-two triangle.

How secretive should he be to keep the group from laying low and delaying their campaign for a season or two? How many troops he must bring to take them down? How much manpower does he need to find them?

"Shade figured out their route."

"True." Murtagh sighed. "As long as they don't change it. Durza either got it through magic, and elves can fuck with that, or he got it through a spy among the rebels, and elves will be complete and utter morons to trust their exact route to anyone."

Meaning he will have to stay secretive enough to not force them to delay or change plans and keep looking for other paths they might and probably will take. When you have Galbatorix on your pitiful ass, you do not take any risks. And sharing the real route was a huge one.

Most likely whatever they fed to the rebel was a pile of rubbish. They gave them the endpoint correctly at best. At least that's what he would have done in their place.

If they even had a pre-determined route, and not chose the best option right in the field.

"We are fighting against the experience here, Thorn."

There was a short silence. His dragon was angry - and kept his anger to himself. The last thing either of them wanted was to lash out at each other.

"Turn to experience, then."

That... made a degree of sense. But no. Durza was not appointed for the task, yet it was his child. He found the information. And the success was taken away from him.

"He needs us to fail." Murtagh shook his head. "He will refuse to cooperate at best, and will feed us bullshit at worst."

"I did not mean the shade." Thorn chuckled. "Ask your elder."

Murtagh felt chills running down his spine.

"You know I am scared of him."

"Then you are smart enough to ride me."

"He will not like it."

"He will hate your failure more."

"What do you want me to ask him for? Please, you royal majesty, do all my work for me?"

"He gave you guidance once. He will provide another."

"No."

Thorn paused, surprised.

"No?"

"Fuck no," Murtagh corrected himself. "He gave us a hint. Fifty men, no magic. If he said nothing regarding the path, he believes it is correct. Second-guessing him will not bring us anything."

"What do you propose?"

"Secrecy." He answered. "We will start from the Dras-Leona, slowly moving to the Gil'ead. It is my first move out of the Royal Court, and Gil'ead is a large city. If we are slow enough, it will not cause suspicion."

If anything, it will be the opposite. Warned about his visit upfront, Gil'ead's authorities will be far more interested in preparing their city for the inspection, than looking into travelers. It will make the job for the group easier, not harder - as long they can go through the border before he will arrive in the city, filling roads with troops and security measures.

Meaning they will have to rush. And when you rush, you tend to stick to a clear plan. Which he has a general idea of.

"And who will lead the assault? If we will be stuck in Dras-Leona?"

Thorn did not like it. Murtagh smiled.

"We will."

That made him understand.

"Magic?"

"Magic." He smirked. "And fast wings."

\---

Because Arya is actually fucking smart and is doing it for the last fifteen years, damn it.


	3. Chapter 3

The best thing about magic is the occasional feeling of childlike wonder. You never knew in what interesting way the spell will fuck you up this time. Magic was, in essence, a language. Any person that had access to a library has a general idea of how many combinations a language can take. A little hint: a freaking lot.

It was, in essence, a lot like hearty talk with Galbatorix. You have to think thrice before saying anything and be very definite in your phrasing. Because anything sounding remotely close to offensive will get your killed. The only difference is that Galbatorix will at least tell you what you did wrong before signing an order for your execution. Magic will simply suffocate for saying "glimstring" instead of "der glimstring". And spirits forbid you to mistake "aiedail" for "andlát".

There was a reason why powerful sorcerers were so rare - they either had to stick to safe combinations from the books written generations before them or to have enough guts to survive a spell gone wrong. And it will go wrong. Eventually.

Using language you barely know to order the universe around is a bad, bad idea. A pity he did not have a choice. If it was up to Murtagh, magic would have been banned until some poor bastard finally figured out how the grammar of the old language worked.

It was not up to him.

"Fuck."

The map of the kingdom lied in front of him, colored and well-made. It was old - not ancient, but it was made before the War. It had cities that were burned down and lucked quite a few villages that were built in the meantime. It was a pretty little thing. Would be such a pity if it turned to ash. Like, right now.

"Dur Gata Birsklar!"

Ancient words cut his throat from the inside. They burned through his power, consumed his very essence, and gave nothing back. Except for a pretty picture left on the table. A slight correction - burned into the table.

It was a circle - or, well, three circles, each bigger than the next. The largest centered around the lake Isentar, so big that it almost reached the ocean and eastern border of the great desert. Not a great help. He knew that the egg was somewhere in that region. It wouldn't be in the freaking Alagaesia otherwise.

The smallest one crossed the Bullridge, coming awfully close to the lake. If elven wards did not fuck up his spell - which he had no reason to believe was not the case - he was behind them for about three days on a horseback. Or five hours on Thornback.

He chuckled and stood up. Dras-Leona welcomed him about as well as he expected - with fear, ignorance, and not so well hidden readiness to kill him, depose the corpse and tell his majesty that his dumb kid broke his neck on a staircase.

It was almost like the local lord did not know that Murtagh could read his mind. With all honesty, he probably didn't, poor bastard.

"Sir knight, his highness wishes..."

Murtagh stopped the terrified servant before he could finish the phrase. He was a middle-aged man - well-dressed, scared, and full of fearful animosity. He had a well-developed sense of danger and knew that Murtagh brought nothing but troubles for him.

"Are irrelevant. He will wait for his audience."

It made the serf shut up. His face was an interesting mix between red and white - outrage and fear, combined in one emotion.

"But..."

"Begone."

And gone he was. Murtagh smirked - courtiers were terrified of his glare as ever. Rats, all of them. Instead of gossiping and scheming, he could have done something useful with his time. Conscripted into the royal army and got himself killed by the rebels, or something.

Still, it begged a question. Local lord, Marcus Tábor, was a rare cunt - in fact, he was a surprisingly competent cunt. In a few hours that Murtagh spent in his company on a welcoming feast, he managed to get quite a lot from his head. Lord Tabor was pathologically greedy.

He traded with everyone and for everything. He sold supplies and weapons to wardens only to ambush some of them and sell the captured to slavers of the desert. He stole from Galbatorix, sending half of the crown tax at best. He took protection money from the slavers for capturing city folk, he raised taxes three times in the last three years. He held the pay to the crown troops for a week or two to get the interest from local moneylenders - and he did so every week. He brought almost all organized smuggling, prostitution, and gambling in the city under his roof.

Murtagh was almost impressed. With pure nerve of a little man, if nothing else.

"Thorn. Should we bother?"

There was silence. His dragon sat on the roof of the castle, untrusting to local serfes - and rightfully so.

"Kill him. Move on."

He chuckled. You can always trust Thorn to be consistent if nothing else.

It made a degree of sense. He was sent here for a reason - and it should be a good reason for something so out of ordinary. Good enough to fool the most experienced smuggler. And a little clean up in the important, but far from the most loyal city? Yes, it made sense. It was worth sending him with a little army.

A fish too little for Galbatorix himself to bother, but more than big enough for him. And, as with every public clean up, it should be done in the most Galbatorix-esque way possible. With a lot of fire and upmost cruelty involved.

But he had only fifty household knights with him, and it could turn ugly. Murtagh could turn the city into burning ruins in a few days, but it would defy the purpose of the whole thing. Besides, he did not have an extra day. He was on the clock.

It will be needed to be done swiftly, decisively, and in a timely manner.

"Sir Gregor, rally your men. I will need ten of you as my escort."

Murtagh could feel a sudden surge of pain in the knight's brain. Telepathy was never easy for the target - and Murtagh never bothered to be particularly gentle about it. He felt his companion nodding, understanding the order, and left his mind.

He wished for a couple of spirit-bound undead guards that Durza had. Those were silent, did not doubt their orders, and had no irritating thoughts to bother him with. They were perfect servants and bodyguards.

He was aware that Galbatorix most likely thought the same about him and grimaced. His thoughts had value.

Murtagh sighed and stood up from the table. It was time for a traitor hunt.

The funny little thing about traitors - if you really want to find them, you always will. Most likely - and most comfortably - among the people that you really can't stand.

It was a useful little quirk he learned from Galbatorix.


End file.
